


Just Say No (To Sex, Drugs, and Vampires, Obviously)

by nevermetawolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Bad Vampire Puns, Dracula - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Mentions of Casual Sex, Pining, Scott is the Alpha RAWR, Twilight References, no I'm not kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermetawolf/pseuds/nevermetawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what they would call him. Stiles Butt Monkey of All Supernatural Creatures Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Say No (To Sex, Drugs, and Vampires, Obviously)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime post-season 3, when Derek and Cora are back, Stiles/Scott/Allison don't have darkness in their hearts anymore, and the pack is a happy, successfully-functioning unit.
> 
> (So basically this isn't canon-compliant and never will be because the writers of Teen Wolf are sadists.)
> 
> Not betaed.
> 
> Warnings at end of work.

 

The thing he has with Derek is purely platonic, if climbing each other like trees in Stiles' bed, in Derek's, up against the wall, on the floor, in the woods, and pretty much every surface imaginable (though they had yet to manage the ceiling, Stiles is nothing if not determined) could be accurately labeled as _platonic_ , which Stiles thinks it totally can if there's a notable lack of talking going on, which there is. Like, an uncanny amount of silence that, let's face it, Stiles is not equipped for. Stiles needs to talk like plants need carbon dioxide, or like Lydia needs lip gloss. 

It's actually kind of a surprise that their arrangement has worked out this long, given how poorly they communicate with one another, but Stiles guesses that, ironically enough, this has mostly to do with the - again - no-talking aspect. 

Anyway, his not-relationship with Derek is awesome, like really. What sane teenage boy would complain about having a straight-out-of-a-romance-novel (a genre that Stiles totally _doesn't_ read, not at all) Tall, Dark, and Handsome at his libido's disposal? Plus, _werewolf_ , and Stiles has given up long ago agonizing over how very _not_ sexy that should be.

The only problem is that he's no average teenage boy. No seriously, he must have sprouted lady parts overnight, because he's actually doing this. He's actually turning down fantastic, super-hot werewolf sex. Did he mention it was with Derek?

"Not tonight," Stiles murmurs against the pair of lips mouthing deliciously at his own because he's a masochist and hates himself, apparently. 

Derek must not hear him or take his words to heart, the lips now tracing down his jaw, moving along the overheated skin of Stiles' throat, sucking the spot just above his collarbone that makes his breaths come out shallow. The grip on his hips tightens, yanks them forward until they're aligned with Derek's.

"Derek, I'm serious," Stiles tries again, stupid, hormonal seventeen year old body saying otherwise as he releases a breathy gasp when the open-mouthed kisses on his neck turn into teeth. "Don't - stop - I mean _do stop_. Like right now. Derek. _Derek_." He trails his hands up the man's chest and _pushes_.

It only works because Stiles takes him by surprise. Usually, trying to shove Derek would be like pushing stone and had a great possibility of resulting in an embarrassing injury that you'd have to lie to your friends about later. 

("I fell off my bike."

 "But you don't have a bike." 

"Obviously, because they're dangerous."

He's lucky Scott's as dense as a brick.)

Derek growls in frustration, and yeah okay, Stiles is really questioning his life choices right now because that sends of pleased shiver up his spine. Derek starts to surge forward until he catches sight of Stiles' serious expression. Hazel eyes widen at first, confusion evident as they flicker quickly over Stiles' frame, searching for something, like what'a wrong with him. For Stiles, turning down an amazingly sexy man that wants to be sexy with _him_ is not a sign of good mental health. Finally, Derek takes a step back, finding whatever it is he's looking for and being noticeably displeased with his discovery, his lips fixed into a impassive line.

It takes Stiles a few moments to realize that Derek's waiting for an explanation.

"Oh, I..." Stiles isn't sure what to say. _I think I've developed feelings for you and so every time we do this, my heart breaks a little because I know you don't feel the same way, and this entire thing was supposed to be no-strings-attached, but hi, I'm Stiles and I fuck up everything, nice to meet you. So if you would be so kind as to not rip my throat out and leave so I can wallow in self-pity, that'd be awesome, thank you_ is not a valid option, so he settles on, "I have a headache," which might be worse because that can be directly translated into _I don't want to have sex with you, you're icky_ , and that's definitely _not_ the case _at all._  

"You have a headache," Derek repeats slowly.

Stiles answers in confirmation with a lame "yep."

The slightly taller man blinks like he's never been in this situation before - and honestly, who in their right mind would turn down sex with _Derek Hale_? Stiles would totally understand if Derek wanted to snap at him because a one hundred and forty-seven pounds when wet, lanky _teenager_ has no right to be denying Derek what he wants. (And Stiles is just going completely disregard how insane it is that the object of Derek's desire is _him_.)

He's also half-expecting Derek to ignore his request - not that Derek's a bad guy that would force him to do something without his consent. Despite his weak protests and excuses, Stiles is the epitome of consenting. Derek can smell that, no doubt.

But Derek, as always, does the exact opposite of what Stiles expects. 

His jaw clenches, and his shoulders tense, but he's moving away toward the window without complaint. If he weren't so horrifying, Stiles would say that he almost looked like a kicked puppy. (Well, not aloud, because that would be a death wish.) Just as he's about to step through it, he turns around, face hard, but eyes soft and uncharacteristically vulnerable, lips parting.

"Take some aspirin."  

And then he's gone. 

And Stiles should probably check himself into a mental institution because rejecting Derek I Know You're Bullshitting Me But I'm Still Going to Act Concerned About Your Wellbeing Because Fucking With Your Brain Is a Pastime of Mine Hale is a clear sign that he's not right in the head.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles has to jerk off three times that night - twice in the shower and once more in his room because it _fucking smells like Derek, damn it_ \- he curses his inner-vagina for allowing matters of the heart to conflict with getting his rocks off.

 

* * *

 

It would only be Stiles' luck that something evil and supernatural would be attacking the town right after his 'fight' with Derek, meaning that there would be a surplus of Team Wolf Pack meetings and incidentally lots of awkward Derek-Stiles interactions. Only, they're not awkward. (The interacting part is minimal, as well.) Or, at least, they don't look like they are for _Derek_.

If there's anything Stiles can sympathize with, it's rejection. So he'd get it if Derek resented him for all this, or was maybe too indifferent to give a damn (because Stiles can't be _that_ good of a lay), but what he doesn't get is this whole Allow Me to Be Disturbingly Pleasant to You Like We're Old Friends Who _Didn't_ Sleep Together thing going on. No more wall slams, or scowls, or _Shut up, Stiles, or I'll rip out your throat with my teeth_. Just polite smiles and _Stiles has a point_ during discussions. It's creepy.

And insulting.

It means that not only does Derek not give a shit that they've stopped whatever it was that they had going, but that he's _relieved_. Happier. Like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders. Like sleeping with Stiles is so unpleasant that he's actually in a better mood when he _hasn't_ gotten his dick sucked.

Now, Stiles knows he isn't a 'catch'. He's not overly muscled or sporting a chiseled-chin and modelesque face, but he's pretty damn decent at sucking dick and things relating to that. (Try putting _that_ on your college applications. His father would be so proud.) So yeah, Stiles is a little offended.

Even worse, he's _seething_ while Derek is Miss Fucking America with his diplomatic hand waves and overly gracious attitude, and everyone notices but are too wary to call attention to it, except Lydia, of course, who's a conniving bitch that Stiles loves with all his heart but wants to stab with a fork ninety-eight percent of the time.

"Okay, what crawled up your ass and died?"

It gets unnervingly silent. Even Isaac and Allison, who are in the kitchen fixing 'snacks' like the good little den mothers they are, have stopped chattering to listen in because apparently this has been a long-running question. Scott's suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Cora mutes the TV. _Thanks guys._

"Nothing," Stiles responds immediately.

Lydia challenges him with a single raised eyebrow (and here Stiles thought that people could only do that in books). "Nothing? Yeah right, and Aiden's favorite movie is The Notebook." That earns a snort from Scott. Stiles fixes him with a You're the Worst Best Friend Ever and Will Be Paying for This Moment Later glare until Scott returns his gaze to the ceiling with a guilty grimace. "Stiles," Lydia sighs, almost sympathetically ('almost', because this is Lydia Martin we're talking about here), "Tell us what's wrong so we can fix it and move past this thing. If you haven't noticed, people are _dying_ , so we really can't afford to waste anymore time trying to avoid stepping on your toes."

It must be some cosmic joke that the first words that come out of Stiles' mouth are "I have a headache."

To his credit, Derek doesn't so much as flinch or blink, effectively laying to rest the question of whether or not Stiles quite literally sucks in bed. The verdict is in. Case closed. Survey says: _Stiles is now perpetually doomed to a life of sexless singledom._

Lydia frowns, not expecting such a dumb answer, though Stiles' isn't sure why she's surprised because he has quite a history with dumb answers. "You have a _headache_. The reason why you've been pissed off all week is a _headache_."

"Migraine," Stiles clarifies. 

The redhead squints at him for a second before accepting his condition with a nod that tells him she doesn't buy his shit but they'll talk about it later because for some reason, Lydia Martin is the nicest bitch on the planet.

 

* * *

 

Later turns out to be cleverly put into place when Lydia asks Stiles for a ride home, and once they've driven a couple miles and are out of werewolf super-hearing distance, she attacks.

"So, why the bitch face?"

Stiles looks down at his speedometer and wonders if it would be rude to kick Lydia to the curb. She's pretty enough that hitchhiking would be a breeze. He opens his mouth - 

"Don't lie to me, Stiles. I'll know."

 - and closes it, teeth clicking audibly.

She doesn't appear to be the least bit deterred by his reticence and simply gets more comfortable in her seat, waiting patiently for a response. Only, Lydia Martin and patience never got along all that well, so that lasts a total of half a minute. (Stiles knows because he counted.)

"Does it have something to do with Derek turning into Mr. Rogers minus the ugly sweaters?"

Stiles chokes out a laugh, suddenly remembering why he loves the girl in the passenger seat. Platonically, of course. (Not _In Love With My Horizontal-Tango-Buddy Derek_ platonically, but _really_ , truly platonically. And boy, has it been a long time coming.) "I like his sweaters."

"You would," she acknowledges, though it's more like an accusation as she unsurreptitiously eyeballs his Iron Man t-shirt/hoody/jeans combination. 

They sit there for a moment.

"Can I make a guess? You don't even have to tell me anything. Just answer yes or no." When Stiles says nothing, she continues. "You and Derek, with a pinch of some unrequited teenage love."

With a sigh, Stiles taps the side of his nose.

If Lydia is pleased by his affirmation, she doesn't let on. "Did you sleep with him?"

He could just try to play it coy and ask her to define 'sleep,' but his few, unsuccessful runs at coyness have always ended up looking like a symptom of constipation. "Yes," he mutters reluctantly.

"Does he know how you feel?" 

Probably. Stiles isn't exactly a bastion of tact. "No."

"Are you going to tell him?"

" _Hell no_."

"Why not?"

Stiles smiles weakly. "That's not a 'yes' or 'no' question."

"Stiles."

If he wasn't so fucking upset by this unfortunate turn of events, he'd be touched by the blatant concern etching her features, the worried furrow of her brow, the slight downturn of her pink lips, the soft, comforting hand that's found its way up to his shoulder. 

"Is this the part where you have pity sex with me?" Stiles asks with a forced chuckle.

"Not even in your dreams, Stilinski," but she's smiling now.

"Actually, that happens in my dreams quite frequently - " A loud crack against the windshield halts his train of thought, and Stiles' foot is slamming on the brakes, the car jolting forward, emitting a ear-splitting screech in protest at his careless urgency. "Jesus Christ. Did I just hit a deer?" His inhales become panicked. "Dude, I totally hit a deer. I killed Bambi. Holy fuck, I killed _Bambi_."

He starts to unbuckle his seatbelt to go check on the poor baby woodland creature he's just murdered, trying desperately not to think about the doe he's rendered childless. And oh god, he's going to hell. He's _so_ going to hell.

Lydia's grip on his shoulder pulls him out of his mild panic attack. "Stiles, don't get out of the car."

"Lydia, I'm not gonna just hit and run. This isn't Grand Theft Auto." Dear god, he's never going to be able to play that game again without crying. "What if the deer's alive? Maybe Deaton can - "

"Stiles," Lydia interrupts, eyes frantic, fingernails digging into the meat of his arm. "You didn't hit a _deer_." 

"Then what - "

The shadow at the front of his car moves, sliding back until it's under the the bright beams of his Jeep's headlights. "That's a person," Stiles realizes out loud. "Lydia, _that's a person_."

A completely unharmed, Tall, Dark, but Not Derek person.

" _No shit_ ," Lydia hisses. "What are the odds that that's _not_ the homicidal vampire the pack's been after all week?"

Stiles' jaw drops. " _Vampire?_ Since when did we decide the murderer is a _vampire_?"

"Since Tuesday, you moron! You're were just too busy sulking to pay attention." 

"Holy crap," Stiles whispers, astonished, "a vampire." And then the reality of the situation dawns on him. "Wait, what are we supposed to do?"

Lydia looks at him like he's just proposed they get out of the car and ask the not-woodland creature if he's okay. "We could start by _getting the hell out of here._ "

No use arguing with that logic. Stiles puts the car in reverse and starts to back up (because hey, vampire or not, he's not totaling his car) until he notices that the wannabe Prince of Darkness has vanished, leaving an empty road in his place.

"You drive. I'm calling Derek," Lydia orders. "Head to your house. It's closer."

In any other situation, Stiles would be ecstatic by the notion of taking Lydia Martin home with him. Doing it because a vampire might be trying to kill them whilst his longest-running crush ever is on the phone with his quasi-ex isn't exactly how he imagined it going, however.

* * *

 

"Derek says to stay here for the night," Lydia informs him from his couch as he tinkers away in the kitchen with two cups of steaming, hot chocolate. "According to lore, a vampire shouldn't be able to enter a house without the owner's permission."

"Has this theory been tested?" Stiles questions, balancing the two mugs in his hands as he joins her in the living room.

"It was in one of Allison's hunter journals."

God bless hunters. Except the ones that had an affinity for killing nice werewolves, torturing innocent teenage boys, and burning down houses. Those ones are icky.

"Derek seemed really worried," she tells him once he's seated. 

Stiles shrugs. "Why wouldn't he be? We'd be lost without our very own Sabrina the Teenage Witch."

"Banshee," Lydia corrects. "And I meant about _you_ , airhead."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Of course he's _worried_. He's not a bad person, Lydia. But not wanting me dead doesn't directly translate into warm and fuzzy I Love You, You Love Me feelings." 

"But it's something, right?"

Stiles barks out a noise that's halfway between a groan and a laugh. "I guess Derek not wanting me six feet under _is_ progress considering a year ago threatening me with bodily harm was kind of a daily thing for him."

"See," Lydia chirps unhelpfully and pats him on the shoulder before sipping at her hot chocolate. "Next thing you know, he'll be pledging his undying devotion."

Stiles snorts and swats at her hand.

 

* * *

 

Stiles takes the couch like the gentleman he is, once again very thankful that his dad's working the night shift and wouldn't be home until sunlight. He is not thankful, however, for how this conjures up some memories of other ways he's abused his father's night duty, particularly the ones that include a romp on the kitchen counter with a certain werewolf. (He still can't watch his father make breakfast without blushing.)

Unsatisfied as this train of thought leaves him, he's still fairly exhausted from almost _dying_ , so he finds little difficulty in closing his eyes and giving into the hypnotizing lull of sleep, a necessity that he sure as hell doesn't even get enough of sans encounters with the supernatural. 

What happens after though is kind of odd. 

He's not asleep. He's conscious, aware, but his eyelids are heavy, as are his arms and legs. He can see the living room even though he knows for certain that his eyes are shut. The air is chilled, but he doesn't feel the urge to shiver.

He's immobilized like in a lucid dream, but he's not dreaming.

Fingertips slide down his cheek and he looks up, eyelashes fluttering. A hand cups his jaw softly, a thumb rubbing his cheekbone. Dark eyes, black as midnight, look down at him. 

He's frightened, but his breaths aren't ragged, his pulse a steady, calm thrum against his neck. It's like he's hooked up to a sedative, his mind swirling in chaotic panic while his body rests, limp and pliant.

Black mist materializes into a fully formed figure. Strong, but sleek. Sinewy like a corpse.

Pale lips part.

"Stand up."

The voice is hollow, serene, lilted with an undistinguishable accent, and Stiles suddenly wants nothing more than to follow its command. Every muscles in his body coils for the action, his very cells buzzing with pleasure and obedience. _Up, up, up_ , they cry. _Yes, yes, yes_.

He's at his feet before he can even think to move. Even standing, the dark figure towers over him. The hand on his face finds its way to the back of his head and grips the hair, gently nudging his head to the side.

Stiles lets him.

 _Yes, yes, yes_.

A mouth is descending on the sensitive flesh of his exposed throat, the touch feeling so much like what Derek -

"Forget about him," is murmured before a tongue is swiping at his overheated skin. "Think about me instead."

Stiles does as he's told. 

"Don't tell them about this. About us."

 _Us, us, us._ Stiles gulps. He wouldn't tell. He wouldn't dare. _Please, please, please._

The man chuckles darkly at the whine that escapes his throat. "Good boy," he purrs.

Something sharp pierces his neck, and Stiles emits a silent scream.

 

* * *

 

"Stiles. Stiles. Wake up. _Stiles_."

He jolts forward with a gasp, and catches sight of a weirded-out Lydia Martin with the sexiest bed hair. Ever. And holy shit, is she wearing his shirt? Where are her _pants_?

"What the hell is wrong with you? You look dead on your feet. Are you sick?"

Stiles stares at her in dreary confusion before shaking his head. He's fine. More than fine, actually. He - 

Can barely stand, nearly toppling over when he rises to his feet, legs wobbling like a newborn colt's.

Lydia leans in closer to study him, probably looking for a bump on his head or something that would suggest a concussion, and it's then that Stiles remembers.

_Don't tell them about us._

Without warning, almost as if going on instinct, he slaps a palm to his neck, which isn't inconspicuous _at all_ , but whatever, Lydia already thinks he was dropped on his head as a child, so she'll most likely just chalk it up as Stiles (a regrettably terminal disease) and call him a freak.

"Freak."

The lovely, unpredictable Lydia Martin, ladies and gentlemen.

"Do I need to drop you off at your house before school, or something?"

She catches his gaze and peeks down unabashedly at her the current, very not-school-appropriate outfit she's wearing. "I have a backup outfit in my backpack."

Of course she does.

Stiles nods awkwardly, swallowing. "Well, I'm just going to take a shower. By myself. So yeah. I'll see you. When I'm done. With the shower."

"I'm going to make you a cup of coffee." She takes in his frazzled face for a second. "With an extra side of Adderall."

 

* * *

 

Lydia looks affronted.

"Are you wearing a _scarf_?"

Stiles licks his lips nervously, tugging at said clothing item. "Yes?"

"Stiles, you're authentically nerd-chique, _not_ a hipster."

"I don't know what that means," Stiles says honestly. Not so honestly: "I'm just trying something new."

By this point, Stiles thinks she's given up trying to understand what's wrong with him. (Or maybe she'd done that long ago.)

 

* * *

 

A pack meeting is in order, with a new sense of urgency now that it appears some members "have been targeted." (Scott says this, to which Lydia responds with a snort and starts waxing poetic about how she's _always_ the target. Stiles tells her it's because she has such a magnetic personality. She swats at the back of his head, as if insulted by the compliment. Stiles cries foul and pinches her arm.)

 "We don't think it's just any vampire," Scott announces once they've all settled down like adults. "Derek and I followed his scent after Lydia called. It headed about ten miles east." 

The _by Stiles' house_ is left unsaid.  

"So he was following them?" Isaac inquires gravely.

"Yes," Derek answers for Scott, voice curt and tight. 

He's abandoned the Disney Princess facade - thank the heavens - his strong jaw set, hands fisted. He's seated, but the posture is all wrong, too straight and tensed. His eyes, deep, dark, beseeching are almost identical to the pair that had been focused so intently on him last night, scorching every inch of Stile's skin with their gaze. Only Derek's aren't heavy-lidded or flickering with morbid amusement. Usually unreadable - and ironically the most _expressive_ part of Derek's face - the hazel orbs are narrowed with languid fury, smooth and slick as lava, but as dangerous and chaotic as wildfire. The pupils are dilated, so large that the iris is hardly visible. Stiles can sense the trepidation rolling off of him in waves, and with astonishment, Stiles notes that Derek's worried on _his_ behalf - everything that Lydia had claimed last night and more. 

Guilt washes over him, as potent as the power behind Derek's glare. He's _worried_ about Stiles. Stiles, who is _lying to them_ and, for a lack of a better phrase, _fraternizing_ with the enemy. Some part of him knows it's not his fault, that he wouldn't willing stick his neck out (pun intended) for a murderer, and that his reaction - the overwhelming urge to do exactly as the dark figure from last night commands, the desperate seeking of his approval, the way his stomach lurches eagerly at the idea of fangs scraping against his flesh, drinking from him - isn't natural. Isn't _his_.

But the other part of him knows the he's partially to blame. That this wouldn't be happening to him if he wasn't so needy, starving for affection. 

He briefly entertains the idea of telling them what happened, or trying to at least because the horrible sickly feeling that appears out of nowhere the second the thought crosses his mind suggests that even if he wanted to come clean doing so would be physically impossible. 

His returning expression is pinched with what he hopes to look like disquiet. "Super." 

It's drenched with sarcasm, nearly too much to be believable, but it ends up working to his advantage. The pack probably assumes he's attempting to conceal his distress with wit, something he'd _normally_ be doing upon discovering that a monster may or may not be out for his blood. 

(Okay, so maybe Stiles has been saving up quite a few vampire puns just in case the situation ever presented itself. Of course, at the time he'd imagined the course of events flowing differently - in the opposite direction, even - and the actual outcome was disappointing. And sucked, like a lot.

The worse part is that that last one wasn't even intentional.)

Lydia returns his sentiment with a nervous giggle, and now he _knows_ they're in deep shit because Lydia _never_ laughs at his jokes.

When Derek doesn't immediately continue their unfinished story, choosing to watch Stiles intently as he awkwardly reaches over to warm Lydia's trembling hand between his palms, Scott dutifully takes the wheel after casting his beta a reprimanding frown, the two then sharing a meaningful look that Stiles can't even begin to understand.

"After that, his scent just disappeared," Scott relays to the group. "Vanished out of thin air."

"He did that to us too!" Lydia exclaims, startling Stiles as she wrenches her hand from his to gesticulate animatedly. "He just got up and was gone." She turns to Allison. "I don't remember you saying vampires could do that." It isn't accusatory, simply curious, grasping at strings in self-preservation, searching for something - _anything_ \- that could possibly be of any use to them. 

Allison sucks in a breath and shakes her head. "There isn't an actual account that contains anything remotely close to resembling that. But there are some journals that include - " She pauses. Bites her lip. "A myth. Or, at least I thought it was, but it could be... It might be real." She turns to Scott who gives her an encouraging nod. "It could be _him_."

Stiles blinks, eyes widening as he recalls the black mist, the strong accent, the _fucking cape! How the hell had he not noticed the cape?_  

"Like - like Dracula?" Stiles stutters in disbelief. Holy shit, he was bitten by _Dracula._ The vampire wasn't a 'wannabe' fanboy, he _was_ the Prince of Darkness, alive - err, undead - and in the flesh. 

Stiles has seen enough movies to see how this thing is going to end for him. The Transylvanian doesn't just hit it and quit it and then go on his merry way. He taunts his victims, plays with them, makes them want it so badly _they're_ the ones asking for the bite. Fuck, in some media portrayals, he sleeps with them, and _Stiles is totally not into necrophilia_.

Scott, dependable moron that he is, jumps to his feet in excitement. "Get out! That is so _cool_!" 

Derek growls, a low rumbling in his chest, and Scott plops back down onto his butt, less contrite than he is sheepish.

Cora scowls. "This is serious, _Scott_. We're talking about _the_ Dracula, here. You know, the one who can't be killed and can enter a house whenever the hell he feels like it?" 

 _The one who can control his victims like they're puppets on strings_ , Stiles supplies silently, relieved to at least have an inkling as to why he's not warning the others about his encounter with - fuck, it sounds weird even his head - Dracula.

In lieu of providing Scott the opportunity to remind her quite inappropriately that that's still fucking cool - which, as his best friend, Stiles knows he's totally going to do if he's not stopped - Stiles asks, "Then shouldn't his victims be all - " He brings his hands up to mouth, curling his index fingers and pantomiming fangs. "Grrr?"

That earns a Are You a Complete Idiot scoff from everybody but Derek and Scott. The latter sporting a goofy grin because there's a reason they're practically brothers, and the former, despite his obvious unease, smiling slightly, a weak upturn in the corners of his mouth. The expression is fond, and it makes Stiles knees weak in a way that Dracula, with his fancy parlor tricks, could never even hope to accomplish.

And it's suddenly not so bad that Derek doesn't have romantic feelings for him (okay, it still sucks major ass) because at least he has _some_ feelings for him. Friendly feelings. Protective, Don't You Dare Fuck With My Pack (Well, Scott's pack now) feelings. And those could evolve, right?

Eventually.

In the near future.

Hopefully before Stiles is bald and saggy.

"They'd have to drink his blood for that to happen," Allison states, nose crinkling in disgust.

Words cannot even begin to describe how very _not_ comfortable Stiles is with the idea of drinking blood.

"That's good, I guess," he offers, keeping his internal panic internal. "Vun is better than two, three - three vampires." 

No one else seems to find his edged-with-anxiety The Count impression funny. Fuck them, Sesame Street is awesome.

Cora fixes him with wide, Stiles, What the Hell is Wrong With You eyes.

(If only she knew.)

"We need to protect Lydia and Stiles," Derek comments after a moment of silence, forgetting - once again - that he technically isn't in charge of the pack anymore. Usually, Scott is forgiving of this, mostly because he's less experienced and Stiles can tell that the whole being an alpha thing makes him nervous.

"And Allison!" Isaac adds, ignoring the indignant glare said girl throws at him. She opens her mouth, about to go on her biweekly, _I'm a hunter and can protect myself_ rant, but Scott unsurprisingly cuts her off with a raised palm.

"And Allison," he tags on, communicating to Allison with an uncharacteristically serious and stern glance that the matter was not up for debate. 

Relief seeps into his chest, quieting the angry thrum of his pulse. The assurance of protection against midnight visitors of the vampire variety coaxing him into a state of calm that he hadn't felt since a few weeks ago, before this entire fiasco, before he'd broken off his _thing_ with Derek, blissfully ignorant and willing to accept whatever the the man would give him, even if that didn't include a real relationship - um, where was he? Oh yeah, the assurance of protection _\- don't touch it, Stiles, focus_ \- is accepted by his survival instinct with open arms.

"I'm assuming you guys will be on human-watch until this whole thing clears up." Stiles motions towards the werewolves but looks only at Derek.

The born-werewolf's face hardens, his eyes flashing, misconstruing Stiles' statement to be one of annoyance. It reminds Stiles of how things were before they knew what the back of each others' throats tasted like. Back when Derek slammed him into walls for fun and they annoyed the shit out of each other. (Okay, so that last part was still pretty present in their not-relationship.) 

Ironically, as much as they argued back then, Stiles can't help but wonder if their past-relationship was more functional and healthy than this disastrous no-longer-friends-with-benefits stage (and oh yeah, one of them is like madly in love with the other, who's completely oblivious to the entire thing) they have going on now.

At least then they talked. 

Trading insults and growling threats counts as talking, right?

Okay, so maybe their relationship was never healthy to begin with.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

It's another one of those This Really Isn't a Question, I'm Just Giving You the Opportunity to Change Your Mind Before You Spout Out the Wrong Answer and I Have to Maim You and Eat Your Liver statements that Derek likes so much. 

Stiles raises his hands innocently. Holy fuck, he's scary. "No, no. Of course not. Mission: Keep the Humans Alive is a go. No complaints on my part." 

This doesn't seem to relax Derek's features in the slightest. 

Scott clears his throat awkwardly after a moment of quiet, realizing that he's the one that's supposed to be divvying out tasks right about now.  "I'll stay with Lydia." _Scott. No._ "Isaac and Cora can watch Allison." _Scott, I'm begging you here. Don't do this._ "Derek's with Stiles."

_Of fucking course._

* * *

 

Luckily, 'with Stiles,' didn't actually mean _with Stiles_. Derek has been werewolfing around his property for the past three hours, allowing him his privacy to sleep. 

Not that Stiles can sleep knowing that Derek is just outside his bedroom, all panty and growly. Probably shirtless.

Stiles approaches his window for affirmation and catches a glimpse of bare skin.

Definitely shirtless.

Great, now he's _never_ going to get any sleep.

With a wistful sigh, Stiles turns away from the window, preparing to throw himself into bed and angst over how fucked up this situation is, when his breath catches in his throat, a shiver creeping up his spine, pimpling his skin with goosebumps. 

A unexplainable chill has filled the room, like he's cracked open the window and let in the cool, crisp night air.

A pair of arms wrap around his waist, light and barely there, and nudge him backwards. He follows the movements, allowing himself to be spun around slowly, letting the frigid, silken hands slide along his sides, his stomach, his chest. 

The vampire - no, _freaking Dracula_ \- is at his side, staring down at him in all his sinister, Prince of Darkness glory. 

"How did you get past him?" Stiles asks breathlessly. Derek's nose should have it's own comic book it's so good.

The vampire smirks lazily, but does not respond. Simply traces fingers along Stiles' jaw, his lips, his eyelids, which flutter closed under his ministrations. 

"What do you want?" Stiles demands when the hand moves away, settling at his hip. He's frantic, nervous, scared beyond belief, but like the night prior, his body is unresponsive.  

Fingers slip underneath his shirt, the pad of his thumb rubbing soothingly at Stiles' hipbone with a sort of reverence that makes Stiles woozy. 

"You."

Stiles swallows, mouth suddenly very dry.

"Dracula's gay," he chuckles uncomfortably. "Who would've thought?"

Eyebrows raise, lips twirk. "Not like that." The voice is smooth and velvety. Maybe Stephenie Meyer had it right. He leans down. "Not yet," he whispers, lips brushing against the lobe of his ear.

Holy shit.

He's going to die.

"I'm going to turn you," he tells Stiles intimately, like he isn't referring to _killing_ him. "But only after you've asked me to, which you will. Eventually."

Stiles' teeth grit together. "Not really my cup of tea, but thanks anyway."

Dracula rears back, a fascinated glint in his eye. "You say this now, but you will come to crave my bite, the power it will bring you. I can sense it in you, child. The potential. You think you are weak, but you are the strongest of them all. You just need," he smiles sweetly, understandingly, like a proud teacher or devoted parent, "a little push."

"Still not interested," Stiles snaps, attempting to shake off his grip.

"Do not fight it, darling. You want this, you _crave_ it. I can feel it. You cannot hide yourself from me. I can see into your soul, your essence." Damn, this guy was cheesy. Stiles had figured all the stereotypically bad vampire movies were just _bad_ , not accurate. Who uses words like 'soul' and 'essence'? Christ, he was smack dab in the middle of the Paranormal Teen Romance section. "The darkness does not frighten you as much as you let on. You're intrigued. That's why you invited me in last night."

"I didn't - "

"Mere words are not the invitation I seek. I heard your sadness, your loneliness. You called to me, begging for reprieve. I did not choose you, Stiles." The sound of his name on the vampire's tongue makes him flinch. "You chose _me_."

The truth behind his words sinks in, leaving Stiles' limbs heavy with a crushing defeat. He's not lying. Stiles knows he's not. His mother's death, his father's alcoholism. Lydia moving onto bigger and better things. Scott slipping away from him. They all were. Soon they'd be graduating, and he would leave. Away, gone. They'd be connected through the bond of a bite. By pure instinct, the would always return to each other, their pack. Even Derek.

_Especially Derek._

And Stiles would be alone.

(Later, he'd look back on this with absolute mortification because his overdramatic teenage angst _literally almost killed him_.)

"You're not alone," the man whispers, as if hearing his thought, and maybe he does, but Stiles doesn't care. A long nail grazes against the healing bite marks at the base of his throat. He gasps at the phantom pain, hesitantly tilting his head to the side.

He doesn't want this. He doesn't.

"Let me in, Stiles." It isn't a demand, but a request. A promise.

It's not him. He doesn't want it. 

Except, he does.

"Okay," he accepts weakly, voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, okay."

 

* * *

 

The mark is already fading the following morning, but the skin there prickles regardless. Self-consciously, he retreats to his closest.

 

* * *

"Another scarf? Really, Stiles?"

"Uh, yes?"

"You sicken me."

 

* * *

 

It happens again. And again.

And Stiles lets it.

 _Let me in, Stiles_.

 

* * *

 

He faints during lacrosse practice, which is extremely embarrassing, especially considering it's Scott who carries him off the field, and c'mon, the double-armed cradle definitely breaks Bro Code.

It's even more embarrassing when that becomes the topic of discussion at the pack meeting, and it's almost a testimony to their stupidity that they don't automatically realize what's happening. What's happened. 

The Scooby Gang really needs to work on their investigative skills.

"Are you not feeling well?"

_Yes._

"Are you okay?"

_No, definitely not._

"Not sleeping?"

_Not a lick._

 He'd be touched if he weren't so busy feeling like an absolute shithead. His friends are obviously concerned for his wellbeing.

And he's feeding them lies. 

Currently.

"It's just dehydration. Nothing serious." 

Dehydration and severe blood-loss, but yeah, no biggie. Just grab a bandaid and rub some 'tussin on it.

"You look horrible," Derek grunts in contradiction when he re-enters the room, a plate of pizza rolls in his hands. He sets them in front of Isaac and Scott, both of whom immediately dig in like the slobs they are, which is, funnily enough, totally unrelated to the fact that they turn into wolves every full moon.

"I'm no Belle of the Ball, but I wouldn't go that far."

The beta squints, not even the slightest bit moved by his self-deprecating teasing. Heathen. 

"You look _sick_ ," he amends. 

And the world must stop spinning because Derek's fingertips are brushing gently against the skin beneath his eyes, following the dark circles - a product of insomnia and a very large mosquito.

He slaps the hand away.

"Yes, well." His nostrils are flaring in irritation because _damn it, he's not allowed to do that_. To touch Stiles like he's clueless to how it affects him, like he doesn't care. Like the months they spent together - relationship or not - meant _nothing_. Haven't influenced him at all. Like he's some _Miss America-Disney Princess_ hybrid. Like he's Mister. Fucking. Rogers. "I've been a bit stressed recently with school, and lacrosse, and a vampire that's trying to kill me, and oh yeah, not being able to tell my father about said vampire, because he _so_ did not handle the big werewolf reveal well. But it's not like I can't bounce back from stuff easily with my very own freaky wolfy healing-powers right? No, it's a wonder I'm not flouncing around, bursting with energy. A model of perfect health."

The others appear shocked at his outburst, even Lydia who had most likely predicted the inevitability of this much-needed, steam-releasing conversation with Derek, though she probably expected it to occur for a slightly different reason. 

Derek, on the other hand, is still. Unnervingly quiet. He inspects Stiles pallid face, his tired eyes, and then his gaze is sweeping down toward his hunched shoulders, his heaving chest, his _neck_ -

"Take off your scarf."

Stiles stomach clenches in horror. His fingernails dig into his palm harshly, nearly drawing blood.

"What." It's not a real question. He sounds affronted. "What does that have to do with anything?" he deflects.

"Stiles, take it off."

"Don't be stupid," he spits unreasonably. "I'm not going to take my fucking scarf off for absolutely no reason."

" _Stiles_."

"Don't _fucking_ tell me what to do _,_ you _selfish prick._ "

(Well, that's been bottled up in there for a while.) 

Derek's hand is at the guilty article of clothing, grabbing onto the loop before Stiles can move away and yanking it from his neck.

There's no cliche collective gasp, no croons or cries. Just silence, loud and ringing.

Until Derek breaks it with a snarl.

The man moves away, fist slamming into the wall, leaving an alarmingly large hole in its wake. When his face comes back into view, his irises are bright blue, claws protracting, teeth bared.

He's pissed.

Stiles suddenly remembers why.

Almost instantly, Stiles' anger fades and is replaced with mortification. His cheeks warm, and his gaze drops down to the scarf that had fallen in his lap. His eyes feel hot, watery.

"I'm sorry," he chokes, restraining the urge to break down into an embarrassing mess in front of them. 

 _Of course_ Derek's pissed. He lied to them, all of them. They probably think he's in league with the vampire or something, that he's leaking their plans and that's why they haven't been able to kill Dracula yet. They probably think he _wants_ this. That he's jealous of their power and ran off to whore his neck out in exchange for eternal life and all that jazz. That he's been playing them like a guitar and -

He smells Derek before he sees him, aftershave with a hint of pine. A woodsy scent. Large hands grasp at his own, the grip painless but strong and tethering. A reassuring weight. A reminder. _We're here_ , it says.  

"This is _not_ your fault," he tells him. His understanding, the confirmation that he _doesn't_ think all of those things Stiles feared, that he honestly believes what he's saying, is enough to make Stiles' eyes squeeze shut because Derek's doing that _thing_ _again_ where he makes it physically impossible for Stiles to resent him for not wanting to be with him, for being indifferent toward their splitting up. For not feeling what Stiles feels. 

His mind clutches desperately to his words, fooling itself into believing that if it holds on tight enough, they won't slip away. 

Stiles laughs without humor.

"Look at me."

He does, lashes fluttering apart. Derek's eyes are clear and unwavering with a severity that makes his breaths falter.

"Not. Your. Fault." 

Each word is punctuated with a squeeze.

"He's right," Lydia interjects from his side, her fingers sliding into his hair, massaging his scalp. "We should have realized - _I_ should have realized that something was wrong."

Scott, Allison, Cora, Isaac - all of them. All nodding in agreement.

"I couldn't tell you," Stiles feels the need to convey, shaking from the relief of their forgiveness, from finally sharing the information that's been burdening him for the past week. "I still can't, not really. I wasn't lying on purpose. I'm just - "

"Under his thrall." Allison moves forward crouching down next to Derek. "You can't fight it. None of us would have been able to either."

Stiles snorts. "That's me. Stiles Butt Monkey of All Supernatural Creatures Stilinski."

Derek squeezes his hand again, but says nothing.

"More importantly," Cora chimes in from her spot against the wall. "How do we break it?"

Allison bites the inside of her cheek. "I'm not sure. The myth doesn't really go into specifics. The victims usually just," she glances warily at Stiles, probably hoping to avoid offending him, "give in."

 _Let me in_.

She raises her eyebrows in earnest. "Did you - "

"Yes."

He doesn't turn in Derek's direction, doesn't want to see his expression of disgust or pity or whatever it is that's making his chest grumble.

" _Why?_ " Scott asks, incredulous. 

"It wasn't a conscious effort, Scott," he bites. The slight release of tension doesn't make him feel any better and he winces at the cutting edge of his own tone. "He's a really persuasive guy."

Candidly, Allison questions, "Did you sleep with him?"

The grip on his hands, still cradled in Derek's, tightens until Stiles' knuckles ache in protest and he flinches, too surprised to have the foresight to hide it.

The warmth of Derek's hands is gone within a second, and the werewolf is murmuring an apology as he stands and backs up, as if the physical distance could detach him from the subject.

Stiles wishes he could do the same.

"No." He shakes his head vehemently, nearly gagging at the thought. " _Fuck, no_."

"That's good," Allison assures him. "All of his victims usually do before he, err, turns them. Maybe that's part of the process. Maybe if you don't, he can't... get to you."

Wow, Allison is really going out of her way with this whole word-dodging thing.

"I knew my utter lack of game was destined to serve a greater purpose," he teases lightly, because now that he can think more clearly and is positive that he isn't going to cry like a six year old girl, the entire situation is made all the more humiliating.

"That should buy us some time to research," she decides. "Just keep refusing him, and - "

"What?" Derek hisses at her from the corner of the room, eyebrows raised in astonishment. 

Allison backtracks. "If he doesn't - "

"We are _not_ leaving them alone together."

"He won't be alone. The pack will be outside in case anything bad happens."

"Something bad already _happened_. I'm not going to just sit there and let him - "

"It won't matter either way," Stiles interrupts. "He'll come, and there's nothing you can do to stop him. He will. He has. Every night." He inhales, exhales. Taps his fingers in a nervous rhythm. "Besides, he won't change me unless I ask him to."

That seems to remove some of the tension in the others' expressions - minus Derek's of course, who could make a _living_ out of worrying.

He doesn't bother telling them that the last part wasn't so much a solution as it was a conflict. 

 

* * *

 

"They know."

"They do."

"I'm disappointed in you, Stiles."

"I weep in contrition."

Dracula grins. "You will be very fun to keep around."

A scowl. "I'm not a pet."

"Oh?" A mischievousness colors his features. "Sit."

He does.

"Stay."

He does.

"Beg."

" _Fuck you_ ," Stiles groans, but he's already moving his head to the right.

The vampire's long-fingered hand rests atop his head and ruffles his hair, _petting_. 

 

* * *

 

"Can't you just say no?"

Stiles outright laughs at Cora's question. Not because the thought is absurd (even though it is), but that he can't help but picture a D.A.R.E program against vampires.

Crack is whack. Just say no. 

Try to not get turned into a creature of the night, either.

 

* * *

 

Derek won't talk to him anymore. Stiles wonders whether it's because Derek feels awkward about having to mollify Stiles during the I'm Dracula's Bitch reveal or if he's silently steaming over the _selfish prick_ comment Stiles had made four days ago.

But whatever, it's fine. At least he's no longer a Shiny Happy Person, politely indifferent like they haven't seen each other naked. Or comforting and caring and concerned and every other 'c' that makes Stiles' chest hurt because it's everything he wanted just out of reach, an arm's length away. Taunting, enticing.

Like he's under _Derek's_ thrall, instead of the Count's.

"Stiles," Allison reprimands, realizing his lack of attention. 

"Sorry." He jumps. "Sorry, I was distracted by..." Why on earth would you expand on that, Stiles? "Stuff."

"Right," she drawls, obviously not giving a shit about _stuff_. "I, um, think I've found something that might help with your condition."

"If it's a cross, garlic, and-or holy water, I've tried all three, so don't bother. He laughed." He leaves out the part where the vampire then molested his neck. As much as they're all trying to not freak out about this, he doesn't think any member of the pack could handle a play-by-play. "It went swimmingly."

"He sounds like a dick," Scott complains sympathetically.

"Thanks, Scott. Sometimes I forget." 

Allison steers them back on course. "None of that. It's something... odd. It might be a bit of a stretch, but." She licks her lips. "Maybe you can fight it."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Gee, why hadn't _I_ thought of that?"

"No, I mean. You can't, obviously. Not by yourself." She closes the worn journal in her hand. "What if we were there with you for moral support?"

Stiles scowls. "You can't be serious."

"Hear me out," she pleads. "He says stuff to upset you. That's usually how it works, right? He talks about things that make you feel sad." She shuffles in her seat uncomfortably. "Alone."

Stiles blinks.

"Or, at least, that's what the journals say. I could be entirely wrong."

"No," Stiles murmurs quietly. "You're right."

Her eyes brighten and she sits up straighter in excitement. "So maybe if we - "

"No."

Just as quickly, her face falls. "But I just - "

"I don't _want_ you there. Just talking about it is embarrassing enough."

"Stiles - "

_"No."_

* * *

 

He looks up at the dark figure leaning over his bed, sighs, sits up, already lolling his head to the right obediently. 

"Let's just get this over with."

"Stiles."

The voice is just as ominous, pinched, on edge, but it isn't Dracula's.

"Derek?" he exclaims, head snapping back into place and cheeks heating. Well, this is an unfortunate development. "What the _hell_ are you doing in my room?"

"I'm going to help you."

"Oh no you're not," he objects, jumping up and making his way to the open window. He gestures grandly to it with both hands. "Get out. Now."

Derek steps forward until his face is lit by the moon. His eyes are a serene gray, his mouth closed in a neutral line. He appraises Stiles with a sort of determined obstinacy that's a clear sign the window-thing is a bust.

Stiles sighs, shutting it in defeat. 

"This isn't going to work," Stiles informs him, moving back toward his bed. "I'm just going to end up making an ass out of myself, and we're never going to be able to talk again after you've seen me get bad-touched by Nosforatu." This earns a muted growl. "Not that we talk all that much anyway."

Derek says nothing.

"Yeah, like that," Stiles jokes, shifting until he's on his side, head rested on his elbow. He motions for Derek to take a seat in his desk chair, who obliges somewhat reluctantly. "Ten bucks you'll chicken out after the first five minutes."

Derek's eyes harden, his jaw clenches. "I'm not going to leave you here by yourself."

"You say that now," Stiles explains. "But I'm not exactly the most enticing Bella Swan, and he's no Robert Pattinson. The whole thing probably looks incredibly creepy. Like old people trying to do porn." 

(The internet is a dangerous place.)

"I guess that makes you Jacob," Stiles grins but then stops because oh yeah, weren't they love interests for a while? Wow, totally inappropriate comment for small talk with your ex-something. He plays off his discomfort with a chuckle. "You probably have no idea what I'm talking about. You don't really look like the Twilight type."

"I've seen the movies," Derek says quietly.

 _Fan_ tastic.

"Then I have to ask: Team Edward or Jacob?" Stiles figures his man-card can be forgotten for the sake of avoiding uncomfortable silence. 

Derek smiles wryly. "Team Tyler's Van."

Stiles chokes on a laugh.

Derek's mouth stretches wider, a sinful amount of white teeth peeking out from between his lips. Typically dry but unbelievably soft lips. Always warm and gentle against him own even when the kiss is searing and rushed, and Stiles _really really_ needs to stop thinking about Derek's lips.

"What about you?" Derek inquires casually, but there's something behind the man's stare that hints at more than curiosity. 

"I'm more of a werewolf guy myself."

There's a hitch in Derek's breath and his head drops into his opened palms, his entire frame shaking as he lets loose a frustrated groan. When it raises, he's scowling.

"I don't understand you _at all_."

Stiles blanches at the unprecedented aggressive lilt that slurs the werewolf's words. Definitely _not_ the reaction he was expecting. _Shut up, Stiles, stop being so pathetic_ would have made complete sense, but this? "What - "

"I think things are going well. That you're into me and what we're doing. You looked like you were." His hazel eyes are hooded, pupils dilated, nostrils flaring as if he remembers all of it in vivid detail and _fuck, he probably does_ , the very definition of the word _smoldering_. "You sounded like you were."

Derek's fist clenches into his pant leg, and he grits his teeth, completely and utterly _wrecked_. Jesus, that's a sight a to see. It's about now that Stiles' body betrays him and acts inaptly during a serious-as-death conversation.

"But then, you're done," he continues. "You lose interest, you move on, make jokes like everything's normal. And I'm trying to be a good guy and act like it's no big deal and not bother you with all this because I know you're going through a lot, but _damn it, Stiles_." He shakes his head. "Fuck," he grunts, huffing out a humorless sound.

Okay, so maybe Derek _did_ like the sex. It's not as much of a confidence booster as Stiles hoped it would be. Mostly, it just makes him more upset.

"I didn't lose interest," Stiles says, because he's a nice person and isn't going to let Derek think he's a troll or something - which is so far from the truth it makes him want to cry hysterically. If someone as gorgeous as Derek Hale is self-conscious, then guys like Stiles are screwed. "The sex was great. Like really great. Grrrreat. Tony the Tiger great." He pauses. There was a point in there somewhere... Oh yeah: "That's not why I, err, ended things."

Derek doesn't seemed surprised at all, like he'd been waiting for this moment to: "So it was me then. The reason you stopped was because you didn't like _me_ \- "

" _Jesus Christ_ , Derek. That's not _even_ remotely close," Stiles assures him, perplexed by how Derek could have even cooked up the convoluted notion. "Cold, buddy. So cold. You're in the Arctic Ocean right now. So seriously, if you don't stop with that train of thought, I'll punch you in the face." His gaze flickers to Derek's cheekbones of steel. "And probably break my hand."

The uncharacteristic uncertainty in Derek's voice is palpable. "Then why?"

"You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?" Stiles whines, hating himself because _of course he's going to do this. It's for Derek._ "Just," he inhales sharply through his nose. "Don't laugh, okay?"

A jerked head nod, fingers clenching like Derek's bracing himself for something horrible.

Ouch.

"I kinda fell in love with you. Okay, no, that's chicken shit. There's no 'kinda' there. I did fall. Hard. We're talking off of a bridge and into the middle of a four-way intersection hard. And every time we - you know - it was like getting run over by a semi and I knew there was no way I was going to walk away from our _thing_ unharmed, so I just. Had to stop." Stiles does everything in his ADHD brain's power to not lose his focus and muse over the fact that wow, angsty love declarations apparently can make just about _anyone_ a regular Taylor Swift. "So when I say it's not _you_ , it's really not _you_ , Derek. I broke the rules and ruined a good thing, and I'm sorry. I just couldn't do that to myself anymore. I have more self-respect than that."

And Stiles is actually proud of himself because this last part is true. He does. Enough that he's not going to mope over someone who doesn't have feelings for him, that he's not going to just _settle_ , and that he's most certainly not going to let Count D-bag piss on him and make him an honorary member of the Pasty Ass club.

Stiles has self-respect. He respects his loser self. 

That is, he does until Derek outright laughs - stomach shaking, bending over at the waist to catch his breaths, didn't-he-just-promise-not-to-do-this laughter. It'd be beautiful in its rarity if it wasn't like a punch in the gut.

But Stiles is new and improved R-E-S-P-E-C-T Stiles, so he's totally not going to cry.

Insults, however. _Those_ he can do.

"Asshole," he accuses.

Derek stops abruptly and peers up at him with wide-eyed amusement, his mouth forming a wolfish smirk. He shifts forward, and -

Stiles is horizontal with an 'oof', pinned into the mattress, Derek's knees on either side of his legs. Calloused hands are gripping his face, fingers knitting into his hair. Lips move roughly against his own.

The hell?

"Derek," he mumbles in confusion, moving his head to the side. "Wait. Stop."

The body above him pulls away with pained sound. "Stiles, I swear to god, if you say you have a _headache_ \- "

"No, I don't. I'm not. I just. I don't understand." 

(Don't mock him. It's really hard to string together a sentence when Derek Hale is on top of you.)

"Seriously?" Derek murmurs incredulously. "Is this," he kisses the side of Stiles' mouth, "not clear enough for you?" He noses at the skin beneath Stiles' jaw. "Or this." He bites his earlobe. "Or - "

It takes a moment to compute. 

Derek Hale is kissing him. 

Derek Hale is kissing him even after he mentioned his feelings.

Derek Hale is kissing him _because_ he mentioned his feelings.

"Oh. You - " Stiles realizes in awe, lightheaded. "I am a moron."

 Derek's lips once again crush against his own, and Stiles can't hold back the moan that escapes his throat, nor the gasp when a tongue traces the crease of his mouth, nor the sigh when their lips are parting, mouths opening and Derek is suddenly everywhere at once. His touch, his taste, his scent. Stiles sucks it all in greedily and demands for more.

"Stiles," Derek groans between kisses. "Stiles." Like it's the only word he knows. "Stiles."

Stiles runs his hands up and down Derek's muscular arms, his rumbling chest, his steel abdomen, finally settling them just below his navel, dipping fingertips beneath his waistband, waiting for an answer to his unasked question. Derek nips at his bottom lip in agreement, his own hands reaching down to unbutton and unzip his jeans but allowing Stiles' the honor of sliding them off until they catch on his knees, Derek moving on to the greater task of ridding Stiles of his flannel pajama bottoms.

"Shirts too," Stiles manages. Yeah, those should definitely go, like yesterday. 

Derek leans up to hastily pull his over his head, throwing the article across the room, not even turning to see where it lands. Stiles stares up heatedly at Derek's naked skin, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst. 

Just as he's rising onto his elbows so he can do the same, he catches sight of movement over Derek's shoulder, and _no fucking way, seriously_. 

"Dude," he complains loudly. "Can you _please_ come back later? Just this once? _For me?_ "

Dracula's nose wrinkles as he plucks Derek's shirt off his head. "You smell happy," the vampire addresses Stiles, impressively ignoring the nasty snarling coming from the werewolf hovering above him.

"Kind of."

His lips curl in disgust. "It's _revolting_."

"You don't exactly smell like daisies yourself, Count Dickula. Here's a tip: invest in cologne. Eau du Roadkill isn't going to be scoring you any points with the ladies. Or gentlemen. Whatever it is you're into. I'm still a little iffy on that."

"You do not wish for my gift," Dracula states in astonishment. 

Gift? Dying is a _gift_? That's worse than socks on Christmas. "Not really, no."

"Very well then."

 _Wait, what?_ "That's it? We're done, just like that? I thought what we had was special - "

The room is empty.

Stiles gawks at Derek, whose wolfy-sounds have finally subsided and ethereal blue irises have faded back to their usual hazel. 

"That was almost infuriatingly easy," Stiles whines, biting his lip and throwing an arm over his eyes. 

Derek presses his face into Stiles' neck with a huff.

"If anyone asks, I kicked him in the balls, okay?"

The werewolf nudges his arm aside and backs away just enough for their gazes to meet. Stiles tries (and fails) to not go cross-eyed.

"I love you," Derek tells him plainly. Just like that. Three words Stiles had only ever dreamed of hearing leave the man's lips. "He can't have you," he reprimands, as if he hadn't just witnessed the demise of Stiles' unorthodox fling. "You're mine."

Stiles beams, giddy when Derek returns the sentiment.

"Yeah, okay."

After all, Stiles Butt Monkey of Derek Hale Stilinski had a nice ring to it.

 

* * *

 

"So it literally took a _life-or-death_ situation to get you guys to work through your issues," Cora summarizes with an eye roll.

Not exactly, but that's what they're going with. Stiles, feeling the need to overcompensate for his recent degradation, embezzled the shit out of his How He Fought Off Dracula With Nothing But His Bare Hands story, which wasn't really a lie. His hands were bare - a lot of parts of him were, actually - and most certainly used.

And Derek is such an amazing, wonderful, fantastic, phenomenal boyfriend that he just goes with it, a faint smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

"We were bound to talk things out eventually," Stiles says defensively, because _Derek's_ the emotionally constipated one, not him. 

Definitely not him.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: minor dub-con not between main pairing (basically blood drinking/creepy advances), mentions of a sexual relationship between an adult and minor (but nothing explicit), language


End file.
